


Fury’s Sleep-away Camp for Spies

by squadrickchestopher



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Sex, Bottom Clint Barton, Cabin Fic, Campfires, Clint Barton Feels, Clint Barton's low self esteem, Dirty Talk, Dom/sub Undertones, Dominance, Hand Jobs, M/M, Orgasm Delay, Porn With Plot, Rough Oral Sex, Sex in the woods, Strike Team, Top Brock Rumlow, Vacation, filthy smut basically, uneven power dynamic, unhealthy relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-30
Updated: 2020-06-30
Packaged: 2021-03-04 22:47:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,272
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25004128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/squadrickchestopher/pseuds/squadrickchestopher
Summary: It’s not much to look at. Just a little cluster of log cabins tucked away on the edge of the water somewhere in Washington, almost on top of the Canadian border. There’s a shed with a boat, and a couple Jet-Skis, and some fishing gear. It’s far enough from civilization to feel disconnected, but close enough that driving into town for supplies is feasible.Officially, it’s SHIELD Outpost 17B.Unofficially, they all call it Fury’s Sleep-away Camp for Spies.
Relationships: Clint Barton/Brock Rumlow, James "Bucky" Barnes/Clint Barton
Comments: 24
Kudos: 154





	Fury’s Sleep-away Camp for Spies

**Author's Note:**

  * For [clintscoffeepot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/clintscoffeepot/gifts).



> Essentially prompted by [clintscoffeepot](https://clintscoffeepot.tumblr.com/) who said was reading another fic for me and said "Um you mention spy campfire nights and now I want an early SHIELD days oneshot of a camp-out with Clint, Nat, Rumlow, Rollins, and Bobbi Morse telling ghost stories about the Winter Soldier." One thing led to another, and then this happened. I have no regrets.
> 
> Also, after having some similarities pointed out to me, I have decided to include this story into my [In The Wake Of Your Sunrise](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23647513/chapters/56758078) fic. So I did some mild editing, and now there's references to this in there. Mostly in the first few chapters.

It’s not much to look at. Just a little cluster of log cabins tucked away on the edge of the water somewhere in Washington, almost on top of the Canadian border. There’s a shed with a boat, and a couple Jet-Skis, and some fishing gear. It’s far enough from civilization to feel disconnected, but close enough that driving into town for supplies is feasible.

Officially, it’s SHIELD Outpost 17B.

Unofficially, they all call it Fury’s Sleep-away Camp for Spies.

Sometimes, if a mission has been rough enough, or if there’s too much heat, he’ll send a team here. Forced downtime, he calls it, usually with an emphasis on the _forced_. The time varies, with the record being nearly six months. But once Fury gets it in his head to send a team here, there’s no arguing otherwise. The only option is to pack up and go, or risk being terminated. Which in their line of work, doesn’t always mean a pink slip and a box of office things.

“I hate the woods,” Clint says to the group in general, not for the first time.

“We _know_ ,” Natasha says. “And the next time I hear those words out of your mouth, I’m going to kill you and bury you in these woods you hate so much.”

From the driver’s seat, Rumlow snickers. “Say it one more time, Barton. Just for me.”

“You’re a dick,” Clint says instead, opening a bag of chips. “Why did we bring him along?”

“Because Fury said so,” Bobbi says from the backseat. Her hand darts forward and yanks the bag out of his hands. “We all had to come.”

Rollins rolls his window down and reaches into his pocket for his cigarettes. “Anyone know how long we have to stay?”

“ _You will stay out there until I say otherwise,_ ” Natasha says, in an eerily accurate impression of Fury. 

Clint rolls his eyes and picks up a bag of M&Ms, knocking away Bobbi as she reaches for those too. “I don’t see why I can’t relax at home. In my apartment. Where I can order pizza.”

“Because we’re also supposed to be laying low.” Bobbi flicks a chip at him. “We barely got away from this last mission, guys. We’re all running on fumes. It won’t kill us to spend a couple weeks on downtime, away from the heat.”

“It won’t kill us, but we might kill each other,” Rollins points out, blowing smoke out the window. “Five bucks on Rumlow and Barton being the first.”

Bobbi makes an interested noise. “I’ll take that bet.”

“I hate all of you,” Clint says, throwing an M&M at her.

“I’m not gonna kill him,” Rumlow says, meeting Clint’s eyes in the mirror. “Might break him a little.”

“Like to see you fucking try.”

“Wouldn’t even break a sweat.”

Nat slaps a hand over Clint’s mouth, cutting off his reply. “Stop it,” she says, glaring at him. “Both of you.”

Rumlow snickers again and pulls onto a gravel driveway. “We’re here,” he says. “Everybody get your shit and get out.”

They get their shit and get out. There are three cabins total, all of them looking like they’ve seen better years. Not necessarily dilapidated, but something close to it. Clint kicks at the porch of the closest one, wincing as some of the wood breaks off. “You’d think Fury would maintain this shit better.”

Rollins throws his duffle bag at him. “You’d think,” he agrees, and slings his own over his shoulder. “How are we splitting these?”

Natasha grabs her bag from the ground. “Two beds per,” she says. “If I remember correctly.” She looks at Bobbi. “Roommates?”

“Sure,” Bobbi agrees, and they take the far cabin.

Clint looks at Rollins. “I’m not sharing with you,” he says. “You and your goddamn cigarettes.”

Rollins shrugs. “Okay.”

He takes the far right cabin, leaving Clint with the middle one. Clint grabs his bag and heads inside, fumbling for a light switch on his way in.

The cabins aren’t very big. There’s a tiny kitchen that feeds into a little living space with a broken couch and what used to be a TV. One door leads to a bathroom, another to the bedroom. Clint carries his bag into the bedroom and drops it on one of the twin beds. It creaks ominously, which isn’t really a good sign.

“This is a shithole,” says a voice behind him. Clint turns slightly as Rumlow elbows his way past him and tosses his own bag on the other bed, sending up a cloud of dust. “Ugh. Gross.”

“You’re not staying here,” Clint says, moving to crack the window open.

“I am.”

“No. Go with Rollins.”

“Him and his goddamn cigarettes? No way.”

“You smoke too!”

“Trying to quit,” Rumlow says, pulling a carton of them out. He sticks one in his mouth and smirks.

Clint yanks it out of his mouth and tosses it out the window. “Clearly,” he snaps. “Get the fuck out of here, Rumlow.”

“Nope.”

“I---” He cuts off with a grunt as Rumlow shoves him hard, slamming him back into the wall. “What the hell---”

Rumlow’s forearm shoves against his throat, killing the rest of his protest. “I’m staying,” he growls, voice low and deadly. “So not another fucking word out of you. Got it?”

Clint opens his mouth to argue, but the words seem to die in his throat. He’s suddenly _very_ aware of all the places Rumlow is pressed against him, and how their faces are only inches apart. He could get out of this---he knows a dozen ways to break this hold---but there’s something about the way Rumlow is _looking_ at him, something that’s both terrifying and also deeply arousing---

Rumlow tilts his head a bit, studying Clint. Then a little smirk plays across his face, and he steps back. “Got it?” he asks again, voice coated with amusement.

It takes Clint a moment to remember what he’s talking about. “Yeah,” he finally croaks out. “I got it. Whatever.”

“Good.” Rumlow opens the window more, then walks back out to the kitchen. “Rollins said something about building a fire. You interested?”

“I...” Clint still feels a little off-balance. “Yeah. Okay.”

By the time he gets outside and helps Rollins get a decent fire going down on the beach, he’s mostly pulled himself back together, and shoved whatever _that_ was way down into the recesses of his brain. They’re just dragging chairs around the fire pit when Nat and Bobbi come out of their cabin, looking extremely pleased with themselves. “Look what we have,” Nat says, waving a bag in the air.

Clint squints at it. “Marshmallows?”

“And chocolate and graham crackers,” Bobbi adds. “We’re having s’mores.”

Rumlow laughs. “No _way_ those are any good,” he says. “Look at this place, no one’s been here in forever.”

“We brought them with us.” Bobbi pops one of the chocolates in her mouth. “Had to hide them from the human garbage disposal over there.”

“Hey!” Clint protests.

“I didn’t even say your name,” Bobbi says, grinning at him. “But I like that you knew who I meant. Means it’s true.”

Rollins comes back from the car, lugging something in his arms. “I brought shitty beer,” he announces, looking around at them. He drops the case by his chair and tosses everyone a can, then sits down and pulls out his cigarettes.

It’s almost domestic, s’mores and shitty beer and a roaring campfire. Not something Clint would have pictured them doing twenty-four hours ago, but he kind of likes it. It’s relaxing. He pops the tab on another can and thinks distantly that maybe Fury’s onto something with this whole vacation thing. It’s nice out here, sitting under the starlight, hearing the crackle of the fire and the low rumble of his teammates as they trade “my scar is worse than your scar” stories.

Rumlow’s on the spot now, waving his arms animatedly as he describes a massive explosion, which apparently had sent a Marine’s jawbone tumbling through his gut.

“Did not,” Bobbi says. “No way.”

“Did too,” Rumlow counters. He stands up and yanks his shirt off, revealing a muscular and heavily scarred torso. He points at a particular one, a nasty looking mess of tissue on his left side. “Right there.”

“His _whole_ jawbone?”

“His whole jawbone.”

“Impressive.” Bobbi raises her beer in his direction. “You win.”

“Damn straight.” Rumlow looks sideways at Clint, who is decidedly _not_ staring at him. Not looking at those abs, either, and definitely not wondering what that scar tissue would feel like under his fingers, if it would be sensitive or not, or---

“Nat’s got a better story,” he blurts out, because he needs the subject to change _right fucking now_. “She met the Winter Soldier. Top that.”

Rumlow pauses, then puts his shirt back on. “That true, Romanoff?”

Nat glares at Clint across the fire. “Yes,” she finally says. “A couple years ago, I was protecting a target in Odessa. He shot right through me.” She stands up and tugs her shirt up, just enough for the firelight to illuminate a puckered scar on her lower abdomen. “Soviet slug. No rifling. Bye-bye bikinis.”

“Yeah,” Rollins snorts. “I’m sure you look just _awful_ in them now.”

“Did you actually see the guy?” Bobbi asks. “Or just his bullet?”

“I saw him.” She shakes her head. “Scary guy, that’s for sure.”

Clint leans forward. “Does he really have a metal arm?”

Rumlow nods. “He’s got one. It’s pretty badass.” He turns to Clint. “We’re out of beer. Go get me one from the car.”

“You’ve got legs,” Clint points out. “Perfectly functioning legs.”

“Yeah, and your commanding officer just gave you an order.”

“Don’t start this shit again,” Bobbi says, throwing a marshmallow at Rumlow. “We’re having a nice night.”

Rumlow catches the marshmallow and stuffs it in his mouth. “Fine,” he says, and raises an eyebrow at Clint. “Get me a beer.”

Clint starts to tell him to shove it, but there’s that _look_ in his eye again, that commanding tone in his voice. A flash of heat roils through him. “Whatever,” he says, and gets up. He makes eye contact with Nat, who gives him an appraising look. Clint turns his head after a moment and goes to the car.

He grabs the whole case instead of just one, because little rebellions are important to him, and hauls the whole thing back over. “Anyone else?”

“I’ll take one,” Nat says. “So, Rumlow, how do you know the Winter Soldier has a metal arm? Have you seen him?”

Rumlow looks pale for a second. Or maybe it’s a trick of the fire, because he answers in his usual lazy drawl. “Rumors, Romanoff. That’s all. But that’s one of the more consistent ones, which means it’s more likely to be true.”

Clint tosses Nat a beer, then pulls another one out and hands it to Rumlow. “Merry Christmas,” he says, trying to imbue as much sarcasm as he can into the words.

Rumlow takes it, deliberately brushing their fingers together. Then he leans forward a little, lowers his voice so only Clint can hear him, and says, “Good boy.”

It’s like a jolt of something right to his spine, those words. Clint all but collapses down into his chair, making enough of a commotion that Bobbi raises an eyebrow at him. “You alright over there?”

“Fine,” Clint manages, forcing his shaking hand to close around a beer. “Lost my balance.” He pops the tab and takes a long drink. He does _not_ look at Rumlow, even though he can practically feel the smugness emanating from the man in waves.

 _You’re just tired_ , he tells himself firmly. _Bobbi was right. It was a long mission, you in particular had a hard time of it, and now you’re just tired. Good night’s sleep and you’ll be fine._

He barely listens to the rest of them. He’s got his own scar stories, but his best one is low enough that he’d have to take off his pants to show it, which he is very much not doing. Not right now, anyway.

The fire eventually dies down, and Rollins chucks his last can into the pit. “I’m out,” he says, getting to his feet. “Someone else take care of this shit so the woods don’t burn down. I’m going to bed.”

“Same,” Bobbi says. She taps Nat’s shoulder. “Coming?”

“Yeah,” Nat says. She tosses back the rest of her beer and gets up. “Night, boys.”

“Night,” Clint says. He picks up a nearby stick and stirs the embers of the fire, sending sparks into the air.

Next to him, Rumlow stretches out. “Looks like it’s just you and me,” he says, that smug tone still in his voice.

“Looks like,” Clint says, still deliberately avoiding his gaze. “You can go to bed. I’ll stay out here and take care of this. Won’t be too much longer.”

Rumlow makes a noncommittal noise and doesn’t move. Clint rolls his eyes and gets up. There’s a jug of water in the car; he grabs it and pours it over the remaining embers, twisting away from the steam as it comes up. Then he picks up a stick and stirs the ashes.

“So,” Rumlow says casually. “You were quiet tonight.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Feeling okay?”

“I’m fine, Rumlow.”

“You sure? You looked a little pale there, for a bit.”

Clint grits his teeth. “I said I’m fine. I’m just tired.”

“Alright.” Rumlow leans back in his chair. “Just checking. You had a hard time this last week. Made some tough calls. I know it wasn’t easy for you.”

He sounds surprisingly open about it. Not smug, or condescending for once. Just like he’s truly concerned about Clint’s welfare.

Clint looks up, finally meeting his eyes. “I’m okay,” he says honestly. “Really. I’ll get over it. I just...” He waves an arm around, indicating their surroundings. “This will be good for me. Little vacation, like Fury said. Help me get out of my head for a bit.”

Rumlow nods. The smirk comes back over his face. “Let me know if you need a hand with it,” he says, getting to his feet. “I know a couple tricks when it comes to getting out of your own thoughts.”

“I’m a big boy, Rumlow. I can handle my own shit.”

“I’m sure.” He walks around the campfire to where Clint is kneeling, and drops a hand on his head. “Come on. Fire’s dead, leave it. Let’s get inside.”

Clint pokes at the embers, which are still a little warm. “Couple more minutes. I don’t want to start a wildfire or anything.”

The hand winds into his hair, and pulls. Not hard, just enough to tilt his head back and expose his throat. Enough to meet Rumlow’s predatory gaze, intently focused on Clint. “I said... _leave_ it.”

Clint should do something. Poke him with the stick, or twist away, or break his wrist. Throw sand in his face, or kick him, or---

But he doesn’t do any of those things. He just swallows hard and says, “Yeah. Okay.”

“Good boy,” Rumlow says again, so soft that Clint barely hears it. But it does the same thing as last time, sends that jolt of electricity right up his spine, and a tiny noise escapes his throat. An involuntary little whimper, barely audible against the waves crashing behind them.

Rumlow grins like a shark and lets go. “Come on,” he says, and turns on his heels. “You need to sleep. Been a long day.”

Clint blinks, long and slow, and staggers to his feet. “Okay,” he says again, and follows Rumlow like a helpless puppet.

Inside the cabin, Rumlow grabs some things from his bag and disappears into the bathroom. Clint sits heavily on the bed, mechanically rifling through his own bag. He’s not really looking for anything in particular, just occupying his hands while his mind races.

_Good boy._

“Jesus,” he mutters, rubbing a hand over his face. “Get it together, Barton, come on.”

It’s not like it’s the first time he’s ever heard those words. Bobbi used to say things like that, back when they were together. Natasha literally said it just the other day, when Clint had busted down a door for her on a mission. He’s been called that dozens of times, and it’s _never_ had this kind of effect on him. He doesn’t know what’s so different about this time. Doesn’t know why he didn’t try to break out of Rumlow’s hold, either, and doesn’t know why he’s hard right now---

Clint looks down at that thought, flushing red as he realizes that yep, he’s definitely got a boner, and it’s definitely not going away, and Rumlow’s about to come back out any second. _Fuck_.

He strips off his jeans and tugs his shirt over his head, then stuffs them both into his bag and burrows under the blanket. It’s really too hot to have a blanket on at all, but there’s enough of a breeze through the window that he can probably get away with it.

Rumlow comes out a few minutes later, raising an eyebrow at Clint. “Gonna brush your teeth?”

“Later,” Clint grunts.

Rumlow shrugs and reaches for his shirt, pulling it over his head again. Clint’s eyes go to that scar again, and he has that insane urge to reach out and touch it.

“Eyes front and center, soldier,” Rumlow says with a grin and Clint immediately flushes red. “This ain’t a damn peep show.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Clint says, and rolls onto his other side, where he only has to hear Rumlow take his pants off instead of seeing it.

“Hey, you’re the one checking me out.”

“Was there a part of ‘shut the fuck up’ that you need me to repeat?”

“I’m just saying, Barton.”

Clint grabs a pillow and hurls it behind him without looking. Rumlow grunts as it hits him in the face. “Shut. The. Fuck. Up.”

“This is mine now,” Rumlow tells him, and Clint can hear the grin in his voice. “For the record.”

“Don’t care.” Clint grabs the other one and shoves it under his head. “You gonna let me sleep now, or you gonna keep being a dick?”

Rumlow chuckles. “Go to sleep,” he says, voice low and commanding again, which does fuck-all for Clint’s boner situation. The lights snap off, and Rumlow gets into his own bed, and then there’s finally blessed silence in the cabin.

Clint rolls onto his back after the moment, fixing his eyes on the ceiling. He thinks Rumlow might be looking at him---he can feel the gaze practically burning through him---but he doesn’t allow himself to look over. He just stares at the ceiling, counts the specks in the lumber, and tries to think of anything and everything that’s not the man five feet from him. Like football scores, or the number of arrows he shot yesterday. Or how long they’re going to be stuck out here, in close quarters, with Rumlow whispering shit like that in his ear---

_Good boy._

“Jesus fuck,” he mutters, and turns on his side again. _Get it together, Barton. Come on._

It takes him three hours to fall asleep, and when he does, he dreams of hands in his hair, muttered orders, and two very specific words.

* * *

He spends the next few days avoiding Rumlow as much as he can, which is nearly impossible. Partially because there’s only five of them out here and he’s trying not to be obvious about it, and partially because Rumlow seems to have made it his personal mission to stick as close to Clint as humanly possible. He can barely turn around without running into the guy.

Luckily, there are decent distractions. On the third day, Rollins drives into town and comes back with a couple containers of gasoline, which they use to fuel up the Jet-Skis and the boat. Clint hasn’t been on a Jet-Ski in years, and he and Natasha immediately lay claim to them, spending the afternoon out on the ocean doing increasingly ridiculous tricks. It’s _so_ fun, and by the time they pull back up to the dock, Clint’s feeling more relaxed than he has in weeks.

“That was great,” he says to Nat. “I forgot what it was like to ride one of those without someone shooting at me.”

“Same,” she says, looking happier than he’s seen her in a long time. “Or without it ending in a high-speed crash.”

“That was _one_ time,” Clint protests. “One time, and you keep bringing it up like I do it every week.”

“Do not,” she says with a grin.

They dock the Jet-Skis, but before they can head up to the cabins, Natasha grabs his arm. “I need to ask you,” she says quietly. “What’s going on with you and Rumlow?”

“Nothing,” Clint says, but he says it too fast, and she just raises an eyebrow. “I don’t know. I really don’t.”

“Is he fucking you?”

“What---Jesus, Nat, no!”

She shrugs lightly. “That’s what it looks like.”

“Well, we’re not, so drop it. I don’t---whatever you think you’re doing, I don’t need it.”

“I’ve seen how you react to him,” she says, and he glares at her before yanking his arm away. “Just be careful, okay? There’s something...something off about him. Something I don’t like.”

Clint stops and looks at her. “You’ve never said anything before.”

“I don’t know what it is,” she admits. “It’s just...something.” Her fingers wrap into his, squeezing gently. “Just be careful. Please.”

“Okay,” Clint says, because the tone of her voice is concerning, and he trusts her. He leans forward and kisses her forehead. “I promise, Nat.”

They walk back up the dock together. Clint frees his hand from Nat’s and heads into his own cabin, thinking about taking a shower, or at least rinsing off so he doesn’t smell like an ocean---

Something hits him in the face. A towel. Clint flails awkwardly for a moment, then yanks it off his head and glares at Rumlow. “That was not necessary.”

“Don’t drip on my floors,” Rumlow orders him.

“Fuck you, they’re not _your_ floors.” But he towels off anyway, pointedly ignoring the little smirk.

Rumlow tips his beer into his mouth. “How was the Jet-Ski?”

“Awesome. You should try it tomorrow.”

“I will. Are you and Romanoff fucking?”

Clint freezes, totally thrown for a loop. “I---wait, what?”

He shrugs. “Are you?”

“What---no, of course not! Why are people so interested in my sex life?”

Rumlow tilts his head, a little glint coming into his eyes. “Who else is asking?”

“None of your goddamn business,” Clint says, unable to tell if the heat in his face is a blush or the sunburn. “And no, Nat’s not sleeping with me. I’m not sleeping with anybody.” He goes up the steps of the cabin, stepping carefully to avoid splinters.

A hand snags around his wrist as he walks past Rumlow. Clint stops, looking down at it.

 _Break the grip_ , his brain screams. _Twist and step away._

He doesn’t.

Rumlow studies him for a moment, eyes unreadable. Then he nods and says, “Good.”

“Great,” Clint says acidly. “Can I go shower now?”

Or at least, that’s what he _should_ say. But when he opens his mouth, nothing comes out. The words stick in his chest, tumbling around inside him, and all he can focus on is the bruising, possessive way Rumlow’s hand is wrapped around him.

They stare at each other for a long moment, the air suddenly thick with tension. Finally, Clint pulls slightly on his wrist and says, “Let go.”

He means for it to be scathing. Means for it to be an order. But the words come out as a plea instead, soft and begging. He only barely bites off the _please_ that demands to follow them.

Rumlow looks at him, then flashes a wicked smile. “Go shower,” he says, his voice commanding. “You smell like an ocean.” His fingers loosen. Not letting go, but enough that Clint can pull free.

Which he does, with a quiet “Yes, sir,” that he immediately wants to take back. He hustles into the cabin after that, ignoring the quiet laugh that follows him inside.

 _Knock it off,_ he tells himself in the shower, scrubbing his hair probably harder than necessary. _Whatever the fuck is happening, it needs to stop. It needs to stop right the fuck now._

It would be easier to stop if he knew what was happening, but---

_Don’t pull that shit, Barton. You know exactly what’s happening._

Okay. Fine. So he does. But he lies to himself about a lot of things, and he doesn’t really see a good reason to stop now.

He gets out of the shower and wipes the steam off the mirror. “You are a grown man,” he tells himself sternly. “You are in control of both your hormones and this situation, and you are going to man up and fucking deal with it.”

His reflection stares back accusingly, and Clint sighs. “Yeah,” he tells it, reaching for his clothes. “You’re probably right.”

* * *

A few days later, Bobbi catches him as he’s coming out of the cabin in the early morning. “Going into town,” she says, twirling the van keys at him. “Wanna come with? Nat’s still sleeping.”

“Fucking love to,” Clint says, taking them from her. “Let’s go.”

It’s a typical supply run. Nothing interesting, but at least they get decent coffee, and Clint gets to spend a few hours away from Rumlow and his stupid voice, so it’s totally worth it.

He sees the waterfall on the way back to town. It’s maybe a mile from their campsite, really nothing more than a little oasis tucked into some rocks, barely visible from the road. Clint mentally marks it in his mind and thinks about sneaking out early in the morning, maybe take his bow and some supplies and spend a day with himself. He’ll leave a note or something so no one worries.

They return to a group of literal happy campers and unload the van. Rollins in particular looks thrilled about the bag of fishing supplies, and he immediately vanishes down to the beach. Clint bites back a laugh and helps Bobbi and Nat distribute the rest of the stuff to the various cabins.

“Here,” he says to Bobbi, handing her the bottle of Chardonnay he’d snuck in at the last minute. “Thought you might want this.”

She makes a delighted sound and wraps him in a fierce hug. “You’re the sweetest,” she says, kissing his cheek. “I love you.”

“That’s why I do it,” Clint says, grinning at her. She smiles back, then tucks it under her arm and goes back to her cabin. Clint turns back to pick up a case of water.

“We’re not fucking either,” he tells Rumlow, noting the forced nonchalance of his posture. “So you can relax.”

“Wasn’t asking,” Rumlow says, slamming the trunk closed for him.

“Yeah, you were.” Clint carries the case to the picnic table and opens it, pulling out a bottle. He takes a drink and wipes the sweat from his forehead. “Don’t know why you care.”

“Team dynamics,” Rumlow says easily. “Need to make sure everyone’s playing nice with each other.”

“Who died and left you in charge?” Clint kicks a rock away. “Just because you led our last mission doesn’t mean you’re still the boss now.”

Rumlow steps closer. Too close. Clint goes utterly still, barely even breathing, the water halfway to his mouth. His heartbeat thuds in his ears as Rumlow’s hand comes up, gently tugging the bottle from his hand.

“Yeah?” Rumlow asks quietly. He takes a long drink, and Clint stares at him, transfixed by the way his throat moves as he swallows. “Who would you say is in charge, then?”

Clint doesn’t have an answer for that. He doesn’t know where to start, can’t even gather his thoughts with the way Rumlow is standing in his space. Drinking his water. Staring at him with that sharp smile, the kind that just screams _run far, far away._

“I don’t know,” he finally says, the words coming out as a whisper.

“That’s okay,” Rumlow says quietly. “It’s not your job to know. It’s your job to follow orders.” He leans even closer. “Understand?”

Clint swallows hard, nods once.

“Use your words, Barton.”

“Yeah,” he whispers. “I understand.”

Rumlow grins. “Good boy,” he says, and turns away, walking towards the cabin without looking back.

Clint lets out a shuddering breath and collapses onto the picnic bench, burying his head in his hands. “Fuck,” he breathes, painfully aware of _everything_ right now, like his senses are dialed up to a thousand. “ _Fuck_.”

He’s sure Rumlow is watching him now, but when he lifts his head, he’s alone.

“Get it together,” he tells himself, reaching into the case and yanking out another water bottle. It’s warm already, even just from a few minutes of sitting in the sun, but it helps bring him back to earth. Helps him focus. Gives him a concrete task that he can do without thinking of Rumlow’s voice, or his words, or the fact that Clint is almost painfully hard right now, erection straining against his jeans.

“Clint!”

He turns slightly, sees Bobbi and Natasha waving at him. They’re both in bikinis, walking down the beach towards him. “How do you feel about cliff diving?” Natasha asks once she’s close enough. She tosses him a towel. “There’s some decent cliffs about half a mile south of here.”

“Sounds great,” Clint says, still very aware of his body, and not really wanting to stand up. “Let me go get changed, and I’ll meet you there.”

“Works for us,” Bobbi says, and they move off.

Clint watches them go, shading his eyes against the sunlight. _Tomorrow_ , he thinks, _Spend a day at the waterfall, get your head screwed on straight. That’s all you need. Just a day away._

He lies to himself about a lot of things, after all. What’s one more?

* * *

Early the next morning, he leaves a note on the kitchen counter. Nothing specific, just a few scrawled out words. _Going out. Back for dinner_. Then he takes his bow, and a small daypack with supplies, and heads off into the woods.

It’s roughly an hour’s hike to the waterfall. Clint doesn’t let himself think about anything except the trail under his feet, and the breeze around him, and the sky turning grey with the imminent sunrise. He senses the waterfall before he gets there, hears the pounding rush against the rocks and smells the cool wetness of it. It makes him go faster, excited like a kid now that he’s got the end goal in reach.

The sun is just barely breaking over the horizon when he sees it. It wasn’t much from the road, and it isn’t much now, but it’s here and it’s _his_. A place for him to be alone.

He whiles away the morning hours, shooting his bow at various targets, entertaining himself by making patterns in the trees, or freaking out birds by shooting right between their feet. After a quick break for lunch, he strips down to his underwear and stands beneath the waterfall, letting the pounding water wash over him like a massage.

 _Now this is vacation,_ he thinks as he steps out, shaking his head to get water out of his ears. He spreads his towel out on the ground, intending to lay down and sunbathe for a bit. _I could get used to this._

Not that Fury’s Sleep-away Camp isn’t buckets of fun on its own, but---

A snap of a branch behind him puts every sense on alert. Clint dives for his bow, rolling up on his knees with an arrow nocked and the string pulled taut, eyes searching for the source of the disturbance, whether it’s a deer or a swamp monster or---

It’s Rumlow.

Clint very nearly lets the arrow go anyway, but after a few heartbeats, he forces himself to relax and lower the bow. “I almost killed you,” he says, the adrenaline rush fading. It leaves him feeling weak and dizzy. “What the hell are you even doing here?”

“Checking on you,” Rumlow says offhandedly, like he’s not concerned at all that Clint nearly put an arrow through his eye. “You disappeared.”

“I left a note.”

“Yeah, I saw it.”

“And you came anyway?”

Rumlow shrugs. “Why not?”

Clint sighs and sticks the arrow back into his quiver. “I wanted to be alone, Rumlow.”

Another shrug. “Your point?”

“My point---” Clint cuts off, a swell of fury blocking the rest of that sentence. It’s not fucking fair, that’s his point. He wanted to be alone for twelve goddamn hours, that’s his point. He’s been running on adrenaline and fumes for the past two months, and he’s tired of being around people, and if he’s being completely honest with himself, he came out here to get the fuck away from Rumlow and his stupid voice and his stupid _words_ that Clint can’t seem to shake off.

That’s his fucking point.

He bites it all back, though, and just crosses his arms. He’s very aware that he’s mostly naked, and still dripping with water. “Well, you saw me. I’m fine. You can leave now.”

“I could,” Rumlow agrees, sauntering forward. “I don’t think you want me to, though.”

Clint sputters a little bit. “I---what---did you not hear me say I wanted to be alone?”

Rumlow nods, and steps a little closer. They’re only a few feet apart now. “I heard you.”

“But you’re just going to ignore it, because you’re an asshole?”

Rumlow stops. Tilts his head and crosses his arms over his chest, mirroring Clint. “I’m not ignoring you,” he says. “It’s just that I don’t think you really know what you’re saying.”

“I...” Clint throws his hands up in frustration. “Would you stop that?”

“Stop what?” That lazy smirk is back, and Clint wants to smack it off his face.

“That. That cryptic shit.” He’s breathing too fast, giving too much away, and he can’t really bring himself to care. He was supposed to be alone today, had maybe expected Nat or Bobbi to come after him if someone was really concerned.

But not this. He wasn’t ready for this.

Clint closes his eyes for a moment, forcibly pulling himself together. “Please,” he says, clenching his fists.

“Please what?” Rumlow’s voice is closer, making him flinch.

Clint takes a breath, dragging in a lungful of air so deep it almost makes him dizzy. “Just tell me what you want,” he finally says, opening his eyes. Rumlow is close to him again, so close that it’s almost obscene. They’re the same height, same build, but Clint feels incredibly small right now, hunched into himself and almost trembling with---

With what?

Fear?

Anticipation?

He doesn’t fucking know anymore. He can’t think straight.

Rumlow’s hand gently touches on his shoulder, traces over an old knife wound. “I want you,” he says, voice quiet. “Thought I’ve made that pretty clear.”

“Why?”

The whispered question gets a lazy smile from Rumlow, and the fingers move from Clint’s shoulder to his chest, slowly tracing patterns on his skin. “Why not?”

“I’m not---” Clint makes a wild gesture with one hand. “Why _me_ , I’m not anything---”

“Not anything special?” Rumlow finishes, and Clint nods once, a sharp, jerky movement. “Don’t sell yourself short, Barton. You’re exactly what I’m looking for.” He steps even closer, sliding his hand from Clint’s chest up to the back of his neck. The grips turns possessive, and Clint can’t stop the little noise that escapes him.

Rumlow grins. “That’s it,” he says, and drags Clint forward into a kiss. Except it’s not really a kiss, it’s a display of dominance. It’s open-mouthed and messy and hot, and it goes on until Clint lets out a little moan and pushes at his chest.

Rumlow steps back. He’s breathing heavily but looks delighted as hell, wiping the back of his hand over his mouth. “Here’s the deal,” he says. “You tell me to go, and I’ll go. I’ll leave your ass right here and I’ll never bring it up again. But _this_ \---“ he gestures between them--- “is what I want.” There’s a glint in his eye, and he leans forward slightly. “And I think it’s what you want, too.”

Clint should tell him to go. He really should. He should tell Rumlow to fuck off, that he’s insane, that it’s never going to happen, that Clint doesn’t want it.

But he doesn’t. If he’s perfectly honest with himself, he was never going to. They’ve been heading for this moment when Rumlow pinned him against a wall that first night. Maybe even long before that. So instead, he nods once, a short motion, and lets out a long breath. Something uncoils in his spine, something loose and languid, and when Rumlow presses a hand on his shoulder, he drops to his knees without a single word.

“Good boy,” Rumlow says, and Clint shudders at the words. Rumlow grins.

He doesn’t do much, at first. Just walks around Clint like he’s surveying a prize. Clint turns his head to follow him, instinctively tracking his motions, but then Rumlow tells him to hold still. To look straight forward. Clint obeys, concentrating on his breathing, trying to keep it even. Rumlow stays behind him, just off to his left. Not saying anything, just looking. Probably enjoying watching Clint work himself up over literally nothing.

“You’re twitchy,” he comments after a little bit. His foot nudges Clint’s ankle, and Clint, predictably, jumps at the touch. “Do I make you nervous?”

“No,” Clint says.

“You lying to me?”

“Yes.”

Rumlow chuckles. “Good to know,” he says. He comes back around in front, and slides his hand under Clint’s chin. “Look at me.” Clint flicks his eyes up, meeting Rumlow’s. They look at each other for a moment, and then Rumlow slides his thumb into Clint’s mouth. “Suck.”

He does. Rumlow closes his eyes for a moment, muttering something incomprehensible at the sky. He presses down on Clint’s tongue, then slowly drags his thumb out. “Good,” he says quietly. “Very good.” He grins as Clint shudders again. “You like that, don’t you? Being told you’re good.”

“Yeah,” Clint admits. “I...yeah.”

“Why?”

Helpless shrug. “I don’t know. Just do.”

“That’s alright. You don’t have to know.” Rumlow kneels in front of him, grips his chin with bruising force. “Your job is to follow orders, remember?”

“Yeah.”

Rumlow slaps him. Not hard enough to hurt, just to rock him a little. “That’s _yes, sir_ , to you.”

“Yes, sir,” Clint says, feeling like he’s drunk. He’s hard again, and he wants to touch himself, wants to get off, but he also wants to be good. Wants Rumlow to _tell_ him he’s good.

Rumlow nods. “Better.” He drags Clint into another kiss, hot and heavy, biting at his lower lip and taking control over it. Clint lets out a little moan, closing his eyes.

After an eternity, Rumlow lets go and pulls back. “Alright,” he says, sounding just as out of breath as Clint feels. “Put your hands behind your back.”

Clint does, settling them into a position he knows he can hold for awhile. Rumlow nods approvingly and reaches for his belt buckle. “You’re gonna suck me off,” he says. “Right here. Just like this. Then I’ll decide what I want to do with you after.”

“Yes, sir,” Clint murmurs, tongue darting out over his swollen mouth.

Rumlow groans quietly and opens his fatigues, pulling his cock out and giving it a few strokes. Then he reaches forward and threads his fingers into Clint’s hair, pulling like he did that night at the campfire. “Might get rough,” he comments, eyes dark with arousal. “You okay with that?”

“Safe word is Vienna,” Clint says.

Rumlow snorts. “I’m guessing there’s a story behind that. Remind me later.” He tugs Clint’s head forward. “Come on, then. Show me how good you can be.”

Clint shuffles forward the little distance between them, and wraps his mouth around Rumlow’s cock with a muffled groan. Without his hands it’s all down to his back and core muscles, but he makes it work, bobbing his head and taking Rumlow deep into his throat, swallowing around him. Rumlow lets out a little cry at that, his hand tightening in Clint’s hair. “Fuck!”

Clint pulls off, sucks lightly at the head. “Circus days were good for something,” he says, offering up a grin. “Sir.”

“I’ll say,” Rumlow groans, and tugs him back down again. “Get to work.”

He gets to work. Rumlow might be the one in charge here, but Clint knows how to do this. Knows how to draw out reactions, how to make someone come apart. He laves his tongue along the underside of Rumlow’s cock, mouths at his balls, takes him deep and drools around him. It’s debauched, and messy, and Clint thinks vaguely that maybe he should be embarrassed, but he’s so turned on that everything is just _hot_.

Rumlow lets him set the pace at first, but his grip never loosens, and when he starts getting close, he uses it as leverage to start fucking Clint’s face. Clint takes it, fighting back a gag as he looks up and meets Rumlow’s punch-drunk gaze.

“God,” Rumlow mutters, thrusting into him again. “Fuck, you feel so good. Look at that. Look fucking amazing down there. You like this?”

Clint hums, which is about as good as he can do with Rumlow’s cock halfway down his throat. Rumlow groans at the feeling, moving a little faster. “Almost there,” he gasps out. “Just like that, Barton, so fucking good...”

The praise goes right to his own dick, blood rushing and making him even harder. He makes another noise, some low kind of whimper, and Rumlow’s fist tightens even more. Then he’s coming, spilling into Clint’s mouth, down his throat, over his face as he pulls out. Clint swallows and coughs wetly, slumping forward to lean his forehead against Rumlow’s hip.

“Damn,” Rumlow says, and follows it up with something that vaguely sounds like Russian. Clint starts to ask how he even knows Russian, but then Rumlow’s fingers are swiping over his face, collecting come. He pushes his fingers into Clint’s mouth. “Clean it up, babe. All of it.”

Clint sucks his fingers clean, eyes on Rumlow, then sits back on his heels. Waits patiently for his next order.

Rumlow tilts his head up to the sky, takes a few shuddery breaths. “Damn,” he says again, and looks down at Clint. “Your arms okay?”

“Yeah,” Clint says, and immediately corrects himself. “Yes, sir.”

“Good boy.” He nudges his foot between Clint’s legs, right where his erection is straining against his still-wet boxers. “That looks uncomfortable.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You want to come?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Mmm.” Rumlow stretches, popping his back, and gestures. “Take those off.”

Clint gets slowly to his feet, mindful of the fact that he’s been kneeling for an extended period of time. He sheds his boxers and tosses them over by his other clothes, then turns back to face Rumlow.

Rumlow reaches out, gently traces over the scar on his hip. “How’d this happen?”

“Something stupid, really. It’s a long story.” Clint shrugs. “Goes with the safe word.”

He nods, dismissing the idea with a wave of his hand. “Later, then.” He examines Clint with something heated in his gaze. “You look damn good.”

Clint sucks in a breath and flushes red, fingers tapping along his thigh. “Uh. Thanks?”

Rumlow snorts. “Right.” He reaches for his shirt, pulls it over his head, then divests himself of his pants with quick efficiency. He drops them in a pile next to the towel. Then they’re both naked, which Clint distantly thinks should put them on more equal footing. Except Rumlow steps forward, slow and predatory, and Clint realizes that there’s nothing _equal_ about this encounter at all.

There’s another kiss, not quite as controlling as the first two, and then Rumlow’s hand wraps around his dick, slowly stroking upward.

“Oh, God,” Clint says, his hips jerking forward, hands clinging to Rumlow’s shoulders for support.

“Just me,” Rumlow snickers. “But I’m flattered.” He strokes again, swiping his thumb over the head, and Clint makes a very embarrassing sound. “That’s it, baby. Let it out.”

He keeps his hand moving, his other arm pressed against Clint’s spine like a brand. Clint keeps making all the bitten-off noises that he likes so much, hips erratically moving in time with his strokes. “Fuck,” he gasps out, fingernails digging into Rumlow’s skin. “I’m gonna---”

Rumlow stops, letting go immediately, and Clint whines in protest. “Shush,” Rumlow says, pushing his thumb into Clint’s mouth. “I want to fuck you first. Think you can wait that long?” Clint nods. “That’s it. Good boy.”

He kneels on the towel, tugging Clint down along with him. “Should’ve done this in the cabin,” he grumbles. “Too old for this forest shit.”

“Could always hike back,” Clint says with a grin.

“I don’t think you’ll last that long,” Rumlow says, raising an eyebrow. He digs around in his discarded pants for a second, coming up with a little packet of lube and a condom.

“Very prepared,” Clint says. “I like that in a man.”

“There’s a Boy Scout joke in there somewhere,” Rumlow mutters, and tears the packet open. “Lean forward for me, there you go.” He arranges Clint on his hands and knees, soothing a gentle hand over his spine. “Look damn good like that too, you know.”

“Thanks?”

Rumlow huffs out a laugh. “What, you don’t believe me?”

“Does it matter?”

The hand on his back stills for a moment, and Clint turns his head. Rumlow is looking at him with a contemplative expression, sitting back on his heels. “You really don’t,” he says. “Why is that?”

“I don’t...” Clint suddenly feels ridiculous. He’s naked on his hands and knees, in a goddamn forest, with a man who is technically still his commanding officer. “I don’t know. We doing this or what?”

Rumlow looks at him a moment longer, then nods. “Alright.” There’s a slick noise behind him, and then a finger circles around his hole, cool and wet with lube. “Open up for me, that’s it.”

“Fuck,” Clint breathes, rocking back into it. The shame from a moment ago disappears, like a switch flipping in his mind. “Yes, right there, _fuck_...”

“That’s it,” Rumlow says again, adding another finger and twisting his wrist a little. Sparks light up Clint’s spine, like a lightning bolt to his nervous system, and he bites off a moan. “You can be as loud as you want, babe. No one’s gonna hear us out here.”

“Not...concerned about it,” Clint gasps, his fingers twisting into the towel. “Rumlow, _please_.”

That earns him a smack on the ass. “Who said you could use my name?”

“Sorry.” He drops his forehead down, pressing it into the rough texture underneath him. “Please. Sir.”

“Easy, babe. I’ll take care of you.” He pulls his hand out, making Clint whine. “Shhh. Turn over. On your back.” He grabs Clint’s bag and tosses it at the end of a towel, like an impromptu pillow, then rolls the condom on. “Ready?”

“Yes,” Clint says, hands reaching for him.

Rumlow pushes in with excruciating slowness, smirking as Clint practically writhes underneath him. “Shush,” he says, rocking forward another inch. “I said I’ll take care of you, and I will.” Another inch. It’s like torture, how slow he’s moving, resisting every one of Clint’s attempts to pull him deeper.

“Please,” Clint whimpers. “Just fuck me, come _on_.”

“I’m getting there.” He wraps a hand around Clint’s dick. “Maybe I want to take my time with it, huh? Maybe I like the way you look right now, begging for it.” He leans forward, pushing in the rest of the way, until he’s fully settled in. “It’s a pretty sight, you know.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Clint says, arching his back, impatience cutting through the happy haze in his mind. “I’m a goddamn vision. You gonna fuck me or what?”

Rumlow’s eyes narrow at that. “Thought you wanted to be good for me.”

“I---” Clint bites his lip. “Yes, sir.”

“Stop with the fucking backtalk, then.” He lets go of Clint’s dick, instead sliding up to press against his throat. “Just for that, you don’t get to come until after I do.”

“Aw, fuck,” Clint mutters, or tries to mutter. Rumlow’s hand tightens around his throat, cutting off any reply. He grabs Rumlow’s wrist on reflex, but at the glare he gets in response, lets go.

“I got you,” Rumlow says, and starts fucking him. Still too slow, but it’s better than nothing. Clint slides his hands up Rumlow’s arms, feeling the tautness of his muscles. Then he lets one hand drift down to the mass of scar tissue on his side.

Rumlow shudders at his soft touch, taking his hand away from Clint’s throat to brace by his head.

“Does it hurt?” Clint asks, brushing over it.

“No.” He adjusts his position, hitching Clint’s hips a little higher. “Nerves are dead.”

“Was it re _ahhhh_ \---” The question gets interrupted with an obscene moan. Clint immediately slaps a hand over his mouth, but Rumlow just grins and tugs it down.

“I wanna hear it,” he reminds Clint. “All of it.” He tangles his fingers into Clint’s, pressing them back into the towel for a moment before letting go. “Did you want to ask me something?”

“Don’t remember,” Clint mutters, putting his hand back on Rumlow’s arm.

He loses track of things after that. Rumlow sets up a steady rhythm, fucking into him with an intensity that makes Clint’s spine light up with every thrust. He very deliberately does not touch Clint’s dick, and knocks his hand away the first time Clint tries to reach for it. “No,” he says, with a particularly vicious thrust. “You’re behaving, remember?”

“Yeah,” Clint says, choking on a gasp. “Yes, sir.”

“Good boy.”

It’s like magic, those two words. Clint makes a little gasping noise as his brain lights up in pleasure, something inside him melting into liquid. Rumlow chuckles and grinds into him, grinning wider as Clint lets out a needy little whine. “I like it when you do that,” he murmurs. “Sound so fucking pretty. So wrecked. You wanna come?”

“Yes.” He bites his lip, arching into the next thrust. “Please.”

“Too bad. I haven’t yet, which means you don’t get to either.”

Clint wants to protest that, but his ability to form sentences is not really there, and all he can manage is another broken whimper. Rumlow smiles wickedly at him and picks up the pace. “Good news for you though,” he says, lining up so every thrust drags over Clint’s prostate. “I’m almost there.”

“Awesome,” Clint chokes out, tightening around him, hoping to speed it up a little. Rumlow makes a little noise at that, then glares down at him with a _I know exactly what you’re doing and I don’t approve_ expression. Clint pulls himself together enough to offer up a cocky smile, although the effect is probably ruined by the tears in his eyes.

“Brat,” Rumlow tells him, but he doesn’t stop, so Clint figures he’s okay with it.

It’s only another minute or so after that when Rumlow’s hips stutter erratically. He lets out a low groan, settling heavily on top of Clint and panting into his shoulder.

“Was that okay?” he asks, when Rumlow seems to have settled a bit, his breathing evening out into something more steady.

Rumlow grins against his shoulder. “You angling for a performance review, or you want to come?”

“Both?”

He snickers and pulls out slowly, making Clint whine a little at the sudden feeling of emptiness. “You were good,” he assures Clint, walking two fingers down his chest before wrapping around his dick with a maddeningly light touch. “This what you wanted?”

“More,” Clint says, holding himself still. “Please?”

“Mmm.” The touch gets a little firmer, although still not enough. “I do like you like this, though. Should keep you this way.”

“Might interfere with missions,” Clint says, losing his battle to stay still. “Not very...focused.”

“I can see that.” Rumlow grins. “It’s adorable. You don’t know what you want, do you?”

“Want to come.”

“Do you?” His thumb rubs just under the head, making Clint yell. “I think you like this.”

Clint shudders under him. “Huh?”

“This.” Rumlow taps a finger on his forehead. “Being like this. It’s easier, isn’t it? No decisions. Nothing to worry about. All you gotta do is be good for me.” He tightens his grip. “And you are, sweetheart. You’re being so good for me.”

Clint’s brain pretty much fucks off to outer space somewhere at those words. He’s dimly aware of a stream of babbling words coming his mouth, most of it probably embarrassing, but he’s too far gone to care. All he can focus on is Rumlow’s hand, and the feel of it over sensitive skin, and the way he can practically _taste_ his orgasm---

“Gonna come,” he slurs, eyes sliding shut.

“Nope,” Rumlow says, tapping his face. “Eyes open, sweetheart. No hiding.”

“Gonna come,” Clint insists, opening his eyes anyway.

“That’s right,” Rumlow says, jerking him off with short, sharp movements, the kind intended to push him over the edge as quickly as possible. “Look at me, sweetheart. I want to see you.”

It burns through him like a wildfire, blasting along his nerves and leaving behind nothing but sheer pleasure in its wake. Clint nearly bites through his lip, fingers curling into the towel underneath him. “Fu-uck,” he grits out, dragging in a deep breath. Rumlow works him through it, murmuring something that Clint can’t really hear.

It’s several long, syrupy moments before Clint comes back to himself. Distantly, he feels Rumlow wiping him off with something before rubbing a hand over his chest. “Hey,” he says, and Clint blinks. “You back?”

“Something like that,” Clint says, or at least tries to say. The words come out in one long mumble.

Rumlow chuckles and pats his leg. “Okay. Sit up for me.”

It takes some maneuvering, but Clint manages to work himself upright. He takes the water bottle that Rumlow presses into his hands and cracks the top with trembling hands. “Thanks.”

“Sure.”

Clint takes a long drink, eyeing Rumlow off to the side. “How long?” he asks.

“How long what?”

“How long were you waiting to do that?”

“To get you on your knees?” Clint flushes. “I don’t know. A while.”

“Oh.”

Rumlow reaches for his clothes. “You gonna stay out here?”

Clint looks around, then nods. “Probably. It’s nice here.” He looks at Rumlow. “You staying?”

“Thought you wanted to be alone.”

He shrugs. “You’re here already.”

Rumlow shakes his head and pulls his shirt back on. “Nah. I’ll leave you to terrorize the birds.”

Clint laughs, then cuts it off as a thought occurs to him. “Wait, did you see that?” He sits up a little more. “How did you even know I was out here?”

“I followed you,” Rumlow admits. “I heard you leaving this morning. I was curious. Saw you come here.”

“So what, you were just hiding in the woods and watching me?” Clint tucks his knees up and wraps his arms around them. “That’s very stalker of you.”

“You looked happy. Didn’t want to disturb you.” He shrugs. “It’s a vacation, after all.”

“And then you did disturb me.”

“Yeah, well. I got bored.” He flashes a grin at Clint and gets up. “Be back before nightfall, or I’ll send Romanoff after you.”

“Yes, sir,” Clint says, almost automatically.

The grin gets a little wider, and Rumlow steps forward, threading his fingers through Clint’s hair. “Good boy,” he murmurs, tilting Clint’s head back just enough to expose his throat. “See you tonight.”

He disappears into the woods without a backwards glance, leaving Clint alone, naked, and a little bit dazed.

“Hell of a vacation,” he finally says out loud, and reaches for his own clothes.

* * *

He makes it back before nightfall to a surprise---Nick Fury himself, looking irritated about something. “Barton,” he says as Clint steps out of the woods. “Nice of you to join us.”

“Where did you go?” Natasha asks.

“About a mile that way,” Clint says, thumbing over his shoulder.

“I thought you hated the woods.”

Rumlow catches his eye, a tiny smile tugging at his mouth. Clint flushes and looks away. “They’re not so bad.”

“Glad to hear it,” Fury says. “I have another mission for you all.”

“So soon?”

Fury gives him an odd look, which is somewhat fair. Clint was the one who kicked up the biggest fuss about coming to Fury’s Sleep-away Camp for Spies in the first place.

“I just mean,” he says, gesturing helplessly. “You know. People were after us.”

“And now they’re not.”

“Are you sure?”

“Jesus, Barton,” Rollins says. “You angling to stay here?”

Clint thinks of his creaky bed in the cabin, and how it might feel to have Rumlow hold him down in it. “No.” _Maybe_.

Fury rolls his eye and points down to the beach. “Everyone get your things. We’re getting out of here. This is a top priority mission.”

“What about the car?” Clint asks, and everyone looks at him like he’s an idiot. “Okay, then. Never mind.”

The group splits up to get their things. Clint goes into his cabin, only to be greeted at the door by Rumlow. “Here,” he says, tossing Clint’s duffle bag at him.

“Thanks,” Clint grunts, catching it. He kneels down to open it, shoving his little daypack in it. When he looks up, Rumlow is watching him with a lazy smile across his face.

“What?”

“Nothing,” Rumlow says, nice and easy. “Just brings back some good memories.”

Clint’s ears heat up, and he quickly zips the bag and stands up. “Right.”

Rumlow chuckles and grabs his own bag. “Come on,” he says. “Our chariot awaits.” He kicks the door open and looks at Clint expectantly. “After you, Barton.”

“Yes, sir,” Clint says, and goes out the door.

* * *

Later---years and years later---he finds himself in that same cabin. Everything has changed, and yet nothing has at all. The wood is still rotting, and the cabin still smells musty. There’s still the same shitty couch, and the same broken television, and the same twin beds.

The only thing different is Clint, standing there with the weight of memories pressing down on him.

And Bucky. There is Bucky, now.

“This is it,” Clint says, looking around. “Fury’s Sleep-away Camp for Spies. We used to come here and tell stories about you, you know. Tried to outdo each other with our big scary Winter Soldier tales.”

Bucky snorts, tossing a bag on the couch. “Nice. How many times you get sent here?”

“A couple.” He thinks about the last time, and what happened, and his chest tightens.

Bucky notices, because he notices everything. “Hey,” he says, putting a gentle hand on Clint’s shoulder. “We don’t have to stay long. Just a few days. We’ve been running pretty hard. We could both use a break.”

“I slept with him,” Clint says. “Here. Rumlow. The last time. We were out by the waterfall, and I---” He stops.

“I know,” Bucky says, rubbing between his shoulders. “You told me, remember? I know. It’s okay.”

“It’s not okay,” Clint says, staring into the bedroom. Remembering how it felt to be pinned against the wall there, and how hard it made him. It disgusts him now, knowing what Rumlow is. What he was. “I let him fuck me, how is that okay?”

“You didn’t know,” Bucky says. “Not back then. No one did.”

“I should have.” Clint takes a shuddery breath. “Buck, I don’t know if I can stay here.”

“Hey.” Bucky draws Clint into a hug, presses a soft kiss to his forehead. “We don’t have to. We can move on.”

But his voice is tired, and Clint is tired too, so after a moment in Bucky’s arms, he just shakes his head. “No. We should...we should stay. At least for tonight.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah.” Clint tilts his head up to kiss him. “I’m sure.”

“Okay.” Bucky obliges, and then smiles against his mouth. “I’ve got an idea.”

“That’s never a good statement.”

“Only coming from you.” Another kiss, and then, “How would you feel about me---” another kiss “---taking you to bed---” another kiss “---and making some better memories?”

Clint huffs out a laugh, leaning his forehead against Bucky’s neck. “I’d like that,” he says. “Like a rebranding.”

“Good,” Bucky says, and pats his ass. “I’m gonna grab the rest of the stuff from the car. Why don’t you go in there and get undressed for me?”

“I think I can do that,” Clint says.

“Good boy,” Bucky says, and Clint melts the same way he did years before, when Rumlow whispered those words at him. Except this time, there’s a sense of love in them, and approval, and Clint knows that when Bucky says it, he fucking _means_ it.

“Love you,” Clint tells him.

Bucky pauses in the doorway, then glances back over his shoulder. “Yeah” he says, a fond smile on his face, so much better than the sharp grins Rumlow used to have. “Love you too.”

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on [tumblr!](https://feedmecookiesnow.tumblr.com/)


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